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This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Hello, Sedona residents, my name is Christopher Fox Graham and I want to be your mayor. Not any time soon. I'm talking 2012. Why? Because I said it as a joke four years ago and people took me seriously. Now my pride's on the line.

Actually, my overblown ego is just part of my sense of humor. But I am self-confident like mad, so much so, I like hearing people talk smack about me because it still makes me the center of attention even when I'm not around.

I am egotistical. I am brash. I can be jerk just on principle alone, just ask Christopher Lane, Aaron Johnson, Greg Ruland, my ex-roommates, or my family. I am tenacious. I am a good speller and a great speaker. I am a Pisces. I am a phenomenal kisser, a mediocre boyfriend, a terrible cook and a hilarious dancer. I am a poet. I am a Jedi ... if only in my mind. I will fight for Sedona; I will fight for you because it's the people in my life, in this city, who make my life worth living.

Yes, I have little funding. About $13.41 at last count, and that has to go for a 12-pack for a party this weekend. So, no posters. But I can't be bought. I'm allergic to money, which I why I spend what little I do earn on my friends, acquaintances, and those in my community who need it more than I do. Think of me as mayor like that. Spange me, Sedona, and I will provide.

The city of Sedona has such potential to support its residents, but this effort is lost on poor communication between residents, businesses and city government. I propose the city partner with local businesses and residents to promote our local events, boost community participation, and develop a sense of true community. One local newspaper and a smattering of disconnected websites isn't enough to keep residents informed about all the activities, fundraisers, venues, arts events, concerts, festivals, shopping deals, and special events. New media is the future. I propose public-private partnerships to make Sedona a wired city, one needed to thrive in the 21st century.

Rents for businesses are so high that most do not stay in business for more than a year. Businesses have extreme difficulty drawing locals to shop. Locals prefer to stay home because they say there's nothing to do. Everyone in Sedona wants to share, but no one is willing to make the first step. I propose working with residents - and not just the 100 regulars who show up to city council meetings - to develop a true, free, city center where all residents can celebrate our community ties.

I propose spending less city money on bringing in tourists and more money on supporting local businesses that cater to residents. Tourists pay the bills but residents vote the votes. And I like votes. But residents like doing things in the city without getting their wallets sucked dry like they were tourists, too. I propose businesses institute a citywide locals discount, but receive tax breaks and write-offs from the city for supporting the community.

Why 2012? Why not 2010?To prepare. To consolidate. To procrastinate. To get distracted by shiny things. To play really great video games and watch a good movie, and maybe make some Raman noodles. To get angry that we're procrastinating and get off the couch and get motivated to change the city.

Besides, if Sedona's New Age and metaphysical community is right and the world is coming to an end, why not throw your vote away on a hard-luck poet with a charming manner and good intentions. If the Mayan gods don't raze the planet by 2013, then Sedona will be in good hands.

Why CFG? Why not. Some leaders become great, others have greatness thrust upon them. And a few like me, strive for greatness because a fake ego masks of a sense of humor.

What will I do in office: I will talk to you. I will hear your concerns. I will fight for you. I will speak honestly and slow. I will speak plain English, with occasional dashes of cursing in English and Klingon because it's funny. I will put measures before council. If they fail, I will point the blame at those who voted against them. I will have logical, dispassionate arguments for all of my decisions. I can separate my personal biases from my decisions as an elected official. I will be honest. I will think about embezzling but realize that I'll probably get caught eventually or have a guilty night's sleep, so I won't do it. I love sleep. I hate guilt. And my ego is a joke, not real like former Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich’s.

I will network with whomever can help this city. I will work late. I will get up late, too, so it's kind of a wash. I will be creative. I have an IQ around 150 and think outside the box. Like MacGuyver, will find ways to fund city programs with duct tape and fountain pens. I am honest to a fault. I lost my virginity in Cabin 8 at Mingus Mountain Methodist Church Camp. I was horrible, but she loved me despite it. See, that's real honesty you can rely on in a leader. Maybe too much, but it means I won't have any Lewinsky-ish late-night incidents in the mayor's office. Unless there's a gun to my head. Or if the Mayan gods come in 2013. Or I'm having a Clintonesque wet dream, but only after I make peace in the Middle East. I am an atheist. I am a socialist. I am still good friends with most of my ex-girlfriends, and for a poet, that's saying a lot. I was convicted of a DUI in 2002 and possession of stolen property in 2004 or 2005 for some road signs my roommate and I had in my apartment when I moved from Flagstaff. But I paid the fines, said I'm sorry, and months later had a beer with one of the officers laughing about how cool the road signs looked from a photo.

What will I do to win? I will campaign. I will debate and crush my opponents. I will thumb-wrestle. I will engage in pissing contests, both metaphorical and literal if need be. I will kiss babies. I will kiss large and medium size dogs. I will not kiss small dogs, they get scared and have a tendency to play "Where's your nose?! That's right! It's in my belly." I like my nose on my face, occasionally in flowers and sometimes smelling the hair of a beautiful woman on a lazy Sunday morning.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

I was disappointed by the poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration. The poem itself is unremarkable. I was hoping for something moving and sweeping. Obama is from Chicago, the birthplace of poetry slam. I wasn't asking for a slam poem, but a more theatrical reading would have been appreciated.

Elizabeth Alexander was born in 1962 in Harlem, New York, and grew up in Washington, D.C. She received a B.A. from Yale University, an M.A. from Boston University (where she studied with Derek Walcott), and a Ph.D. in English from the University of Pennsylvania.

Her collections of poetry include American Sublime (Graywolf Press, 2005), which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize; Antebellum Dream Book (2001); Body of Life (1996); and The Venus Hottentot (1990).

Alexander’s critical work appears in her essay collection, The Black Interior (Graywolf, 2004). She also edited The Essential Gwendolyn Brooks (Graywolf, 2005) and Love’s Instruments: Poems by Melvin Dixon (1995). Her poems, short stories, and critical writing have been widely published in such journals and periodicals as The Paris Review, American Poetry Review, The Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, Prairie Schooner, Callaloo, The Village Voice, The Women's Review of Books, and The Washington Post. Her work has been anthologized in over twenty collections, and in May of 1996, her verse play, Diva Studies, premiered at the Yale School of Drama.About her work, Rita Dove has said that Alexander's "poems bristle with the irresistible quality of a world seen fresh," and Clarence Major has also noted her "instinct for turning her profound cultural vision into one that illuminates universal experience."

In 2007, Alexander was selected by Lucille Clifton, Stephen Dunn, and Jane Hirshfield to receive the Jackson Poetry Prize from Poets & Writers. She has also received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, a Pushcart Prize, the Quantrell Award for Excellence in Undergraduate Teaching at the University of Chicago, and the George Kent Award, given by Gwendolyn Brooks.

She has taught at Haverford College, the University of Chicago, the University of Pennsylvania, and Smith College, where she was Grace Hazard Conkling Poet-in-Residence, the first director of the Poetry Center at Smith College, and a member of the founding editorial collective for the feminist journal Meridians. She has served as a faculty member for Cave Canem Poetry Workshops, and has traveled extensively within the U.S. and abroad, giving poetry readings and lecturing on African American literature and culture.

Alexander was a fellow at the Whitney Humanities Center at Yale University, an Associate Professor in the school's African American Studies Department, and currently she is a fellow at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University.

She was selected to read at Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration in 2009.

"Praise Song for the Day"By Elizabeth Alexander

Each day we go about our business,walking past each other, catching each other'seyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us isnoise and bramble, thorn and din, eachone of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darninga hole in a uniform, patching a tire,repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.A farmer considers the changing sky.A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, wordsspiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that markthe will of some one and then others, who saidI need to see what's on the other side.

I know there's something better down the road.We need to find a place where we are safe.We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, builtbrick by brick the glittering edificesthey would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,others by first do no harm or take no morethan you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,love that casts a widening pool of light,love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,any thing can be made, any sentence begun.On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

My favorite part of the inauguration of President Barack Obama. Perhaps what made the piece so profound -- besides the fact I knew all the words to the Shaker hymn "Simple Gifts" due to my upbringing as a choir boy in the United Methodist Church, not bad for someone who's been an atheist since age 12 -- is that noon passed during the piece, meaning that under the 20th Amendment to the Constitution, Obama became president during the performance.

Air and Simple Gifts is a classical quartet by American composer John Williams composed for the January 20, 2009 inauguration of Barack Obama as President of the United States. The piece was first performed at the inauguration in Washington, D.C. by Anthony McGill (clarinet), Itzhak Perlman (violin), Yo-Yo Ma (cello) and Gabriela Montero (piano). It was the first classical quartet to be performed at a presidential inauguration. It was performed immediately prior to Obama taking the oath of office.

Williams based the piece on the familiar nineteenth century Shaker hymn "Simple Gifts," by Joseph Brackett. The source piece is famous for its appearance in Aaron Copland's ballet Appalachian Spring. Williams chose the selection from Copland, one of Obama's favorite classical composers.

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,

'Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gain'd,

To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,

To turn, turn will be our delight,

Till by turning, turning we come round right.

The piece lasts a little under four and a half minutes. It is structured in roughly three parts. The first section presents the "Air" material, consisting of a spare, descending modal melody introduced by violin, pensively explored in duet with cello and piano accompaniment. The entrance of the clarinet, playing the "Simple Gifts" theme, signals the beginning of a small set of variations on that melody. The "Air" melody at first intermingles with the "Gifts" theme, though it is supplanted by increasingly energetic variations. Midway through, the key shifts from A-major to D-major, in which the piece concludes. A short coda reprising the "Air" material follows the most vigorous of the "Gifts" variations. The piece concludes with a unusual series of cadences, ending with chord progression D-major followed by B-major, G-minor and finally D-major.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

she only loves me when the bars closeand no one else is willing to take her homespilling drama Ibsen would envyabout this girl or that boywho said or did somethingwe must deal with right awayeven though the guilty partiesaren’t around to argue the contrary

she comes in the back dooras my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddonsoon to destroy us allfights past all my contradictionsto slip into my satin sheetsand call me to bedno matter whatever late-night duties require my attentionI just want to sleepwithout a stranger’s tongue in my mouthdrift off to sleep alone and contented in my lonelinesswithout her arms wrapping envious tendrils around medesperate for my attentions, tongue or cockto remind her she’s human and wanted

I’ve lived my days without a womanto make me feel like a manjust give me a soft pillowand dreams of past loversor memories of travelsor fictional visions of potential futuresand I drift into dreamlandwith a smile until dawnbut she calls me to bedto wrap myself around herhold her like all the lovers she’s left behindI am not themI am more than a bodywith a hungry organ seeking a cathedralto play my music inwhile the seats sit empty of religious devoteesI don’t need the fictionsthat tonight is the night two twin souls find each otherone drunk on whiskeythe other loaded up with ginmaking long island iced tea loveripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breathto stink the air beneath the sheets

she slips off her clothesthrows her panties to flooras if the only key I needed to her moistnesswas the lack of a cotton barrier

my hips learned the motionsthe thrust and throb of hipsfrom wise women who could have taught a hundred thousand menthe way to love properlyI have been a student of masterswho still make my head spinyears after they taught me how to play

one who showed me how a tongue can speak verseby the way it flicks and glides across a clitas if poetry was not the sound of wordsbut their movement in spaceanother who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bedfinding the best place of allwas an overloaded dryerbouncing off-balancewhile the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hoursanother who taught me the way to find perfect rhythmis to pretend you’re a jazz trioaccompanying a polka bandwhile the titanic sinks

loving a woman with hips and skinstakes intention and concentrationbut their arts are wasted when you are, too

she calls for lipspops a pill to ease herselfpulls close my musclesand wants the better parts of meto fill herbut when the competition is eighty proofI see no reason to trespass on her intoxicationI want to love herbut her stories change too fast to trust

she stretches her limbsrubs below my beltto awaken what she thinks she wantsand opens her anime eyes to my otaku desiresbut I’ve seen the way this endsand no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the taleI am more than her cartoon perfect playmateI’ve seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Brownsonly she’s left unsatisfied and obliviouswhile they go off to findlittle red-haired girls to love

she treats her pussy like a daytrip destinationinstead of somewhere one wants to livepay a mortgage,build a white-picket fenceand eventually retirewe’ve all gotten postcardsfrom those who’ve been there beforeand the mystery has become a cheap tourist trapwe only visit for the noveltyof saying we’ve been there, done that

she spreads her legsto spill honeybut she’s only catching fliesso I zip mine upand sleep on the couchby myself at least I’m with someone who loves mefor what I dream ofnot what I dangle between my lonely thighs

she only loves me when the bars closeonly calls after 2 a.m.and I can tell her time zoneby checking the clockeach message begins with slursabout missing me with extra “s”s and how much she hates me for not calling back by threebut how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves mewhatever my name is tonight

she curses my loverspoints at their photos and says they’ll never love me againbut that’s not why I keep themthey loved me onceand that’s all I have in the endshe hates my wall-hanging loversbecause she hasn’t been one of them

she doesn’t rememberthe night I let go of these rulesslipped part of me into herand watched her writhe with joyas her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and overshe asked me the next morning if we fuckedthey way you’d ask someoneif they’d read a news storyor seen a movieor cleaned the rain gutters last yearif she can’t rememberwhy remind her

I’ve fucked for funand for curiositybut not to be forgottenI don’t need any more stamps in my passportand I’ve visited countries like hers before

she only loves me when the bars closebut I don’t serve what she’s drinkingI only save her a barstoolpour water and soda until she’s so drunk on her own vintagethat she doesn’t know what year it isdrifts off to sleep in my armsonly then is she finally honest enoughfor me to trust heronly unconscious, still and silentdo I believe what she has to sayonly thenwhen she can’t contradict me a thousand waysI whisper what she wants to hear

Saturday, January 17, 2009

I've been writing poetry for nearly a decade and I generally stay away from graphic sexual content or references; I think it's part of my conservative childhood. I avoid words that directly reference sex, but my relationship with the girl in this poem seems to revolve around sex exclusively despite my attempts to make it more meaningful.As such, I include these references in the poem for dramatic effect.

--Contains sexual content and strong language--

She Only Loves Me When the Bars CloseOf Ashley Wintermute

she only loves me when the bars closeand no one else is willing to take her homespilling drama Ibsen would envyabout this girl or that boywho said or did somethingwe must deal with right awayeven though the guilty partiesaren’t around to argue the contrary

she comes in the back dooras my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddonsoon to destroy us allfights past all my contradictionsto slip into my satin sheetsand call me to bedno matter whatever late-night duties require my attentionI just want to sleepwithout a stranger’s tongue in my mouthdrift off to sleep alone and contented in my lonelinesswithout her arms wrapping envious tendrils around medesperate for my attentions, tongue or cockto remind her she’s human and wanted

I’ve lived my days without a womanto make me feel like a manjust give me a soft pillowand dreams of past loversor memories of travelsor fictional visions of potential futuresand I drift into dreamlandwith a smile until dawnbut she calls me to bedto wrap myself around herhold her like all the lovers she’s left behindI am not themI am more than a bodywith a hungry organ seeking a cathedralto play my music inwhile the seats sit empty of religious devoteesI don’t need the fictionsthat tonight is the night two twin souls find each otherone drunk on whiskeythe other loaded up with ginmaking long island iced tea loveripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breathto stink the air beneath the sheets

she slips off her clothesthrows her panties to flooras if the only key I needed to her moistnesswas the lack of a cotton barrier

my hips learned the motionsthe thrust and throb of hipsfrom wise women who could have taughta hundred thousand menthe way to love properlyI have been a student of masterswho still make my head spinyears after they taught me how to play

one who showed me how a tongue can speak verseby the way it flicks and glides across a clitas if poetry was not the sound of wordsbut their movement in spaceanother who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bedfinding the best place of allwas an overloaded dryerbouncing off-balancewhile the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hoursanother who taught me the way to find perfect rhythmis to pretend you’re a jazz trioaccompanying a polka bandwhile the titanic sinks

loving a woman with hips and skinstakes intention and concentrationbut their arts are wasted when you are, too

she calls for lipspops a pill to ease herselfpulls close my musclesand wants the better parts of meto fill herbut when the competition is eighty proofI see no reason to trespass on her intoxicationI want to love herbut her stories change too fast to trust

she stretches her limbsrubs below my beltto awaken what she thinks she wantsand opens her anime eyes to my otaku desiresbut I’ve seen the way this endsand no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the taleI am more than her cartoon perfect playmateI’ve seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Brownsonly she’s left unsatisfied and obliviouswhile they go off to findlittle red-haired girls to love

she treats her pussy like a daytrip destinationinstead of somewhere one wants to livepay a mortgage,build a white-picket fenceand eventually retirewe’ve all gotten postcardsfrom those who’ve been there beforeand the mystery has become a cheap tourist trapwe only visit for the noveltyof saying we’ve been there, done that

she spreads her legsto spill honeybut she’s only catching fliesso I zip mine upand sleep on the couchby myself at least I’m with someone who loves mefor what I dream ofnot what I dangle between my lonely thighs

she only loves me when the bars closeonly calls after 2 a.m.and I can tell her time zoneby checking the clockeach message begins with slursabout missing me with extra “s”sand how much she hates me for not calling back by threebut how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves mewhatever my name is tonight

she curses my loverspoints at their photos and says they’ll never love me againbut that’s not why I keep themthey loved me onceand that’s all I have in the endshe hates my wall-hanging loversbecause she hasn’t been one of them

she doesn’t rememberthe night I let go of these rulesslipped part of me into herand watched her writhe with joyas her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and overshe asked me the next morning if we fuckedthey way you’d ask someoneif they’d read a news storyor seen a movieor cleaned the rain gutters last yearif she can’t rememberwhy remind her

I’ve fucked for funand for curiositybut not to be forgottenI don’t need any more stamps in my passportand I’ve visited countries like hers before

she only loves me when the bars closebut I don’t serve what she’s drinkingI only save her a barstoolpour water and soda until she’s so drunk on her own vintagethat she doesn’t know what time it isdrifts off to sleep in my armsonly then is she finally honest enoughfor me to trust heronly unconscious, still and silentdo I believe what she has to sayonly thenwhen she can’t contradict me a thousand waysI whisper what she wants to hear

Thursday, January 15, 2009

I knew Gandhi back when he was a fighterthrowing fists in dark, low barswith bikers and Brits alikeno one called him "the short guy"without getting a knuckle across the jawhe was fun in those daysa raging booze hound, his drink of choicewas a screwdriver, straight upno waitress could pass bywithout him grabbing a feelah - what a hell raiserwe called him the Mad Mahatmahe could run a pool table blindfolded,while reciting the Bhagavah Gitabackwardsthey said he was the toughest tigerthis side of the Gangesand he was

i remember the time we got loadedand drove halfway to Bombayin a stolen car with a bottle of SoCoand three six-packs of Natty Ice in the front seatthere was that brief car chase with the copsin some nameless suburbafter we ran a stop lightsideswiped a rickshawand didn't stop to swap informationif it wasn't for his aim with a .38into the left front tire of the lead cruiserwe might have served some timeinstead of waking up hours laterin the shadow of an elephant herdeyeing us with contemptwe ate well that night

ah, Mad Mahatma,the man who mixed raw eggs with hislong island iced teasclaiming it cured hangoversMad Mahatmawho busted down a bookie's doorfor no more than 37 rupees he was owedMad Mahatmawho got me drunk and tattooed"reincarnate this"across my assMad Mahatmawhere have you gone?Mad Mahatmawhere are you now?Mad Mahatmai'm tired of drinking alone

This is beauty,the way skin bounces off cloudsshouted to a thickened skyof a heaven too tired to listenand I feel a step closer to godwhen i contemplate our creation

you know we were made in the imageof a drunk deitywho didn't know her/is right from her/is lefttried to shorten our days with death and plaguebut we kept coming backtill s/he woke in a hangoverand realized what s/he'd donewas a little, um, crazy at the timea little short on the why’s and how’sof how we came to beleft us between two dead soldiers of Sam Adams lighton her/is best friend's neighbor's kitchen counter'cause s/he was watching her/is figuretries to hide her/is face in the barwhen we come staggering through,asking to use the phone.and begging the bartender to serve us the wineof the vine that softened judas' loyaltythen asking the gravedigger to bury usclose enough to count raindropsof the days till judgmentwhen pulled from the soil like treasurewe can recall our days before it all went downhilland convince the final judgethat we're worth sparingworth including in the finalitythen sing a songsoft enough to make the towers crumbles,tarnish those pearly gatesand force the whole messto come crashing downwhen heaven fallsthe boom will resound through historyin our heartbeats,and the echoes will come 72 per minutethere,put your hand on your sternumcan you feel the echo in your chest?the end has already happenednow we're just words arching toward that final"the end"before the acknowledgements,index,and afterward from the publisher,characters on a page.and tonight,I glimpse the reader's eyes

Kaila Haas,a 2007 graduate of Sedona Red Rock High School and a current resident of the Village of Oak Creek.Sorbet poet between rounds 3 and 4 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.

The slam's host, Danielle Miller, reads a poem to kick off the second half of the slam after intermission. Miller is a local actress and poet.Sorbet poet before round 3 at the Old Town Shootout, Saturday, Dec. 13, at the Old Town Center for the Arts, in Cottonwood, Arizona.

CFG the slam poet

Fox the Poet

Christopher Fox Grahamis a Montana-born boy raised in Arizona to be a poet, artist, and singer with unending wanderlust. He's fascinated with art and other shiny things, a good story will keep him captivated and silent as he soaks you in.

In truth, he is good at only three things: using language, kissing, and driving.

He has performed for MTV and on The Travel Channel's "Your Travel Guide" episode of Sedona. Aside from winning more than 100 poetry slams, he's published four books of poetry, most recently The Opposite of Camouflage, and won the 2012 Dylan Thomas Award for Excellence in the Written and Spoken Word.

A slam poet since 2001, he currently hosts the bimonthly Sedona Poetry Slam in West Sedona.

For nearly four years, he was the senior Copy Editor of the Sedona Red Rock News, and an arts reporter and a columnist. He wrote a weekly column "Sedona Underground," about the city's art scene. After leaving in May 2008, he was asked to return as Assistant Managing Editor in October 2009. He was promoted to News Editor in April 2012 and in August 2012 was promoted to Managing Editor, overseeing the Sedona Red Rock News,The Camp Verde Journal, Cottonwood Journal Extra, The Scene and The Village View.

He has won numerous personal and editorial newsroom awards from the Arizona Newspapers Association, including three awards for Best Headline.

He was the managing editor of Kudos, a weekly arts and entertainment publication of the Verde Independent. He was also managing editor of The Villager, a weekly news publication in the Village of Oak Creek.

He is one the six coordinators of GumptionFest a kickass, annual, one-day grassroots arts festival held in Sedona, this year in September. More than 100 artists and bands exhibit their work for free to more than 1,200 people.

In 2005, he founded the Sedona Poetry Open Mic, which he hosted biweekly at Java Love Cafe on second and fourth Tuesdays until 2012. A former venue included Random Acts of Coffee, in Sedona, which closed in June 2005. The venue named a drink after him which one can order an various coffeehouses in Sedona. The "Topher": A large soy chai with two (or three) shots of espresso. Serve iced or hot. He was member of the city of Sedona Child and Youth Commission for two years and chairman for another two years before the commission was dissolved in 2008.

He has been unofficially named "The Voice of the Underground," in Sedona for his column "Sedona Underground" that appeared every Friday in The Scene. for more than three years, featuring more than 150 artists.

He won the 2004 NORAZ Poets Grand Slam, the 2005 Arizona All-Star Poetry Slam, and was a member of the 2001, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2010, 2012 and 2013 Flagstaff National Poetry Slam Teams. He was also a National Poetry Slam bout manager in 2003, venue manager in 2011, and Sedona Slammaster in 2012, 2013 and 2014, sponsoring the city's first three Sedona National Poetry Slam Teams.

He believes that all slam poets are Jedis.

He has been thrown out of six movie theaters, 18 bars, a Las Vegas nightclub with his girlfriend, a public pool, two malls, four golf courses, one bowling alley, five dorms, one airport, one pet store, a now-defunct nonprofit poetry organization ... and Canada. Seriously.